by David Pope
Whenever the president spoke, the general discerned low aircraft background noise. He imagined her airborne. She should have called him first. Instead, he was in the dark with a massive enemy on his doorstep. Upset, he asked, “How bad?”
Over the background hum, the president replied, “Bad enough, I’m afraid. Despite our best efforts, just a short while ago, Felix Manuel was executed. Poor man.”
Shocked by the news, the general processed the information. It explained what was happening. The enemy was coming! Glancing at the nearest monitor, he saw Rourke pointing at the ground in front of the enemy M1A7 battle tank. He guessed they hadn’t much time.
Determined to protect his troops, Story tried to explain. “Madam President, the execution confirms our worst fears. I suspect the enemy is seeking the surrender or withdrawal of our border crossing battalion. If terms are agreeable, we should accept the inevitable.”
The president, in a calm voice, countered, “General, we’ve already discussed this. We won’t surrender or withdraw. If attacked, our soldiers are to resist, if even for a short while, then they can retreat. Neither of us expects our brave men and woman to die in vain. Understood?”
The general countered. “Madam, an entire armored force of thousands is going to attack our little battalion of a few hundred. Resistance is futile. It serves no purpose. There is no dishonor in retiring when confronted by an overwhelming force.” The general lowered his tone and continued. “Madam, if the enemy is tendering reasonable terms, there’s no good alternative but to accept.”
“No, General Story, you won’t surrender or retreat without a fight. No matter how one-sided the strength or generous the terms. Your job is to resist.”
Stunned by the stubbornness, the general’s anger rose. Face flushing, he replied, “Trust me Madam President, if we stand and fight, the outcome will be decisive and not in our favor. We won’t have time to surrender or withdraw.”
“General, I wasn’t finished.” In a stony voice she continued, “In most circumstances, I won’t override your military knowledge or authority. But as Commander-in-Chief, I’m in charge of our armed forces.” After a pause, in a conciliatory tone she continued, “Negotiate with the enemy for as long you can. But if attacked, you will resist.”
The general tried again. “I’m not sure you understand the overall tactical picture. Even a few minutes of resistance will result in a large loss of ROAS life. I don’t want that on you, Madam President. Instead, I implore you to understand the consequences and allow me to make the military decisions. I’ll try to buy time, but if pressed, and attack is imminent—please let me make the call.”
“You remember Fort Sumter, don’t you, General?” asked the president.
“Of course. But we don’t have time for a history lesson.”
“Listen to me,” urged the president. “This is our Fort Sumter moment. I know it’s hard. We won’t fire the first shot, but if fired upon, we will resist. If forced upon us, the people of our nation will learn we have the moral courage to stand against tyranny. That lesson, if necessary, starts today.”
“You want martyrs?”
“No, but this country needs a backbone.” She paused and cleared her throat. In a flat tone she spelled it out, “I’ve heard your objections, and although facing overwhelming odds, there will be no backing down without resistance. Instead, if attacked, you shall fight back. After that, you are authorized to do whatever is necessary to protect our troops, up to and including surrender. Understood?”
The general looked up and noticed his aid waving, indicating she wanted to switch his audio back to the border. He nodded, it was time to act—no more arguing. “I understand, Madam President.”
“Good. Thank you. I’ll be there soon,” replied the president, ending the call.
Upset, the general balled his fists then turned his attention to the potential disaster brewing on the border.
* * *
Colonel Rourke shot back and reiterated his position. “Lieutenant Colonel Paulson. As you have sought me out under a flag of truce, I’ve taken the time to come out and listen. I promise as an officer, in good faith, I will relay your message to ROAS Central Command and get back with a prompt answer. As a fellow officer, please understand and respect the limits of my command authority.”
Paulson, it appeared, was losing patience. “Sir, this offer is for you. You’re the field commander. No one else understands better the military situation on the ground. Look, the United States Army doesn’t want to destroy your small force. We understand your innocence. You didn’t commit the crime; your corrupt government did. Instead, in the spirit of cooperation and peace, with full military honor, we ask for an immediate surrender and a pledge to never take up arms against the US again. Afterward, the ROAS troops under your command will face no further threats and can return home. No bloodshed, no death, no imprisonment, just an honorable peace. Sir, do you accept this generous and reasonable offer?”
Rourke struggled to listen while trying to keep up with Central Command whispering in his ear. Command wanted him to paraphrase Paulson so they could eavesdrop. Rourke shook his head, the stress of the dual role getting to him, making him irritable. “Ah. Colonel Paulson,” he stammered, thinking how best to summarize what he’d heard. “If I understand the offer, you’ve asked me to surrender this installation and pledge to never take up arms against the US. In return, my command will be paroled. Is that what you’re offering?” After saying the words, Rourke assumed the tanker knew he was buying time.
Paulson responded, confirming Rourke’s suspicion. “Sir, for your benefit, and whoever else is listening, the US is offering an opportunity to prevent bloodshed.” Paulson continued in a harsher tone, “I need your answer now, sir.”
Rourke fidgeted, thought the terms reasonable, but couldn’t imagine surrendering to such an asshole. He’d rather pull his force back and retreat with dignity.
General Story’s voice came over his headset. “Colonel, no surrender. Stick to the plan. Stretch out the negotiations and give us time to develop a response.”
Rourke swallowed hard, realizing it was up to him. He needed to stall, get things under control. In a loud voice, he re-explained his position. “Lieutenant Colonel Paulson, I have no authority to negotiate. But I’ve heard your offer. I will pass your proposal up the chain of command and gather a response. Later, we can continue the dialogue and discuss next steps. May I suggest we meet again tomorrow? Same time, right here, under a flag of truce?”
Paulson glowered at the colonel. “Sir, not taking responsibility is an answer. You are the commander of this installation. As military men, as officers, we control the destiny of those who serve beneath us. You decide for this installation, and military protocol dictates no need for higher approval.”
Rourke shook his head in consternation.
Paulson continued in a patient tone. “Look …” and he pointed backward sweeping his arm across the horizon, “… you cannot stand against the forces arrayed against you. By accepting our terms, history will not doubt or condemn you. Make the right call. Be always remembered. Link your name to peace and for preventing a slaughter. You don’t want to start a war, do you?”
“Of course not,” replied Rourke.
Paulson wiped his brow, flicking away the sweat and continued, “I ask you again, with all due respect, one last time. Sir, do you accept the generous terms of surrender as offered?” Before Rourke could respond, Paulson added a dire warning. “Be careful. Equivocation is a reply in the negative.”
Rourke found the parley maddening. He was amazed at how Paulson shifted responsibility, placing potential blame on the ROAS when the clear aggressor was the US. He thought the twisting of words and logic a preposterous obfuscation. Alarm bells ringing, he realized the crazy bastards were seeking an excuse. Worse, he’d no way of stopping it. Once the shooting started, or the ROAS surrendered, the US would claim the moral high ground no matter the reality. He needed help, fast, and paraphr
ased his response so CENTCOM could understand the urgency. “You’re the aggressor, sir. You have crossed into our territory demanding a military surrender, not the other way around. Regardless, I must repeat, we need time to review your proposal. If tomorrow doesn’t work, when do you suggest we meet again?”
Lieutenant Colonel Paulson, like a mother to a misbehaving child, sighed in deep disappointment and clucked his tongue. “Your answer is no. Let your decision stand for the record.”
“I didn’t say no,” Rourke stammered.
Paulson shook his head then reached out and grabbed his radio antenna and bent the flexible rod until he could reach the white flag. With a sneer, he ripped off the material and flung it outward where it hung for a moment before fluttering to the ground. At the same instant, he let go of the antenna causing it to whip into place. Workmanlike, Paulson reached inside the tank hatch and pulled out a head protection system. After placing the advanced helmet on his head, he flipped up the visor and adjusted his headset. Then he glanced at Colonel Rourke and out towards the ROAS lines on either side. Wearing a wicked grin, in a loud voice, he spoke into his headset, “Tiger, Tiger, Tiger.” Quick as lightening, Paulson slipped inside his tank and, with a clank, closed the hatch.
Unsure, Colonel Rourke watched Paulson disappear.
Chapter Eight
THE TIGER
In the point pillbox standing next to his machine-gun crew peering out the forward firing slit at the parley, Upton flinched when an enormous fireball erupted. Eyes forced closed by the explosion, his teeth rattled as the concussion swept through the tight confines. Around him, the bunker shook, and heat radiated through his helmet visor. Upon opening his eyes, he bore witness as flaming chunks of wreckage from Colonel Rourke’s Humvee came tumbling to earth.
Disoriented, not sure what transpired, through the smoke, Upton spotted flame licking from the enemy tank. The noise deafening, he shook off the cobwebs and realized the beast was hammering his own force field Active Protection System (APS) fixed atop the pillbox with its M240 machine gun. Thuds and pings erupted as each 7.62 mm exploding round peppered into the thick steel protecting the system. Upton realized the tank was using smart rounds, also developed by the ROAS and sold to the US years ago, to reach up and over the side of the pill box to take out his APS. Designed to detect and protect against larger projectiles, including missiles and tank rounds, the APS was useless against small arms.
In a few seconds, he realized, his best protection against a tank assault would be gone. Beside him, without waiting for the order, Corporal Hudson went full cyclic, returning fire with his .50-caliber and sending out a long, continuous burst of lethal armor-penetrating rounds. A cacophony of noise ensued as sparks flew from the steel monster while brass shell casings ejected from Hudson’s gun tinkled on the concrete floor.
Inside the pillbox, the noise excruciating, Upton was amazed at how everything was happening so fast. Rattled, forcing himself to regain control, through the firing slit, he spotted the barrel of the enemy tank rising towards them and sensed disaster. The advanced reactive armor on the tank was easily defeating Hudson’s onslaught. Worse, without an APS to protect the pillbox, they were a sitting duck. Just as concerning, he doubted there was enough time for his remaining troops, those inside nearby trenches, to counter with their Javelin III anti-tank missiles. Not waiting, he turned and headed towards the steel door at the back of the hardened enclosure. Reaching it, his assault rifle in one hand, with the other he pulled up the locking mechanism and heaved against the heavy exit, forcing it open. As he began to turn and warn his squad, a wave of over-heated pressure flung him high into the air.
* * *
Inside the ROAS command bunker, Lieutenant Colonel Rollins sat monitoring the parley and watched as the enemy tanker pulled down the flag of truce and put on a helmet. Then, the bastard said something to Colonel Rourke and descended inside the tank. Disturbed, he was about to radio Rourke when the colonel and his Humvee disappeared in a ball of flame.
Stunned, Rollins sat rooted at his monitor while Rourke’s Humvee leaped high in the air. A moment later, he heard the rumble. The noise roused him. The fucking bastards killed Colonel Rourke!
Before he could react, an urgent call came over the command network. “Blocker Actual, Tackle One! Inbound missiles detected. Estimate one, two, zero bogies, ETA twenty-five seconds. Auto-interception underway. Request permission to shoot and scoot. Over!”
Rollins recognized the voice of his surface-to-air missile battery commander. Adding to the concern and confusion, across several monitors, over a hundred enemy tanks were moving forward. Puffs of flame emanated from their 120 mm main barrels. Awake at last, the beast was coming.
Out of nowhere, Rollins felt a sudden urge to flee. He hadn’t expected the sensation and forced himself to calm down. Dread rising, he needed to respond. But what to do; where to start?
An aid yelled that CENTCOM was on the line requesting an update. Someone else shouted a warning—the pillboxes were under heavy tank fire. On his monitor, he watched the point bunker explode into flames.
With lives at stake, angry at the enemy, Rollins recovered and barked orders into his headset. He gave the battalion-wide command to carry out the pre-planned defensive response. “Blocker Two, this is Blocker Two Actual. Execute Alpha Dog. I repeat, execute Alpha Dog!”
After issuing the order, shaking with adrenaline, Rollins scrambled to his feet. Another aid cried out enemy missiles were being intercepted, but not fast enough. ETA ten seconds. He took two steps towards the bunker door and caught himself. No, the urge to flee wouldn’t overcome his command responsibilities. He remembered his staff and turned to face them. Some were on the secure network, others appeared in shock looking towards him with expectant eyes. Rollins needed to do more. Maybe he could urge CENTCOM to commit additional assets.
In that moment, with a quick flash of sadness, a massive concussion tore through him.
* * *
Through high-powered optics, Staff Sergeant Lisa McMichael witnessed the parley from inside her assigned trench. The nervous soldiers around her also took turns peering over the top, straining to catch a glimpse of the meeting underway towards their right front.
Earlier, upon entering the trench, McMichael had spotted three loaded Javelin III missile launchers stacked against the far wall. Next to the launchers lay two crates of opened missiles. Several more sealed cases stood nearby. While watching the parley, she thought of the weapons and hoped they wouldn’t be needed. And the doubt, as always, crept in. Was she good enough? Did she deserve to lead a squad? Could she really attack the enemy? Her self-doubt was interrupted by the action on the border.
Through her optics, she watched as Colonel Rourke pointed at the ground. The conversation appeared heated. Orders had come over the battalion network a few minutes prior: hold fire and stay vigilant. Worried, she lowered the glasses and glanced back at the missile launchers. As a precaution, she considered ordering her squad to shoulder the weapons. But loaded launchers were heavy, and they’d been cautioned against an accidental misfire. Better to leave them, she decided. Besides, in the event shooting started, it would only take her team a few seconds to arm themselves.
McMichael turned back to the parley and raised her optics, focusing on the enemy tanker. The man atop the tank pointed out to either side, sweeping his arms at the assembled US armor behind him. She guessed he was trying to intimidate Colonel Rourke.
Nervous, she shifted her glasses away from the parley towards her immediate front and scanned for any signs of movement. Her squad of ten unmounted infantry, six soldiers in the trench, including her and four others inside the nearby pillbox, defended this small part of the border. The enemy had more than two hundred tanks on the field, of which ten sat in her sector. None were moving. Beyond the tanks, twenty-one fighting vehicles squatted, also her responsibility. But they weren’t moving either. Even with the missile launchers, the math didn’t equate; her squad was out-gunned. Sh
e bit her lip in worry.
McMichael lowered her optics and glanced again at the stacked missile launchers. Compared to the enemy armor, the Javelins seemed puny. With a sigh, she lifted the glasses and returned her attention to the parley.
The tanker pulled at his antennae, threw the white flag to the ground, put on a helmet, and disappeared inside his tank. She swung her optics downward, focused on the flag lying crumpled on the desert floor, when her vision filled with a ball of fire.
Shocked, the suddenness of the explosion caused her to drop the optics, the attached neck cord catching the weight. At the same moment, the air trembled, and on instinct, she dropped to her knees. Above her, the noise of the explosion echoed across the desert. Not thinking, to relieve the weight, she pulled the optics from around her neck and tossed them aside.
Shaken, she turned towards her squad. Three troopers crouched and stared back with frightened eyes. Like her, they’d taken immediate shelter below the trench line. But farther down, two others stood upright, rooted in place, staring towards the fading explosion. As if on cue, high-velocity rounds started zipping across the top of the trench, followed by the steady staccato of machine guns firing in the distance. The sound made the scenario real. Realizing both troopers were exposed, she screamed, “Down, down!”
Riveted by the sights of battle, they seemed not to hear and remained upright. Frustrated, she fast-crawled towards the closest standing soldier. Reaching up, she grabbed him by the pant leg and pulled him down. He turned to look at her, stunned, when the top of his helmet split open, and he crumpled beside her. In that moment, she knew the enemy was using smart bullets with the ability to lock onto a spotted target and go over the trench top. A second later, the female soldier standing to his right did a pirouette and fell in a heap.
In horror, McMichael stared at the two fallen soldiers. The male lay face up, his helmeted head protection system shattered, the inside nothing but gore. As for the female, the sight was similar, a massive fatal head wound caused by a direct hit from a .50-caliber slug. The head protection system was no defense against high-powered machine-gun fire. McMichael gagged at the scene, couldn’t contain it, lifted her visor, and vomited.